He glared at those standing stones. There must be a way past their cordon. Keep looking.
His magic nodded then divided. Half now flowed northeastward and half northwestward inside the ring of menhirs. Sarn blinked to clear his blurring sight until his field of view split to accommodate three viewpoints. And in the back of his mind, never far from conscious thought, his map plotted the magic’s progress and the locations of everyone and everything within a mile radius.
Exhaustion pummeled Sarn. He leaned against a statue of a bearded centaur as the energy draining out of his hand took its toll. But I need to know what those secretive stones are hiding. Emerald light cascaded down the mountainside, but no one crossing the meadow noticed or gave the sunlit balcony a backward glance.
Sarn cursed as his magic looped back around for the second time. It still hadn’t found an opening. What am I doing wrong? How can a bunch of stones stop me from seeing past them?
It didn't make any sense. But through the magic’s eyes, Sarn could see only blurs beyond those stones until a lean youth blundered into his magic.
“Will?” Sarn pushed off the statue and staggered to the parapet unable to believe his senses.
Indeed, Will’s icon on his map was caught like a fly in a spider web. His friend froze mid-step with one foot on the graveled beach and one foot inside the circle of standing stones. Will's body interrupted the spell obscuring the riverbank and the ships.
For a heartbeat, the design on the prow of the longship snapped into focus. Dread crystallized in Sarn’s gut as he memorized it. Then Will passed through the first ring of standing stones and their concealment spell fell back into place.
“Sarn?” Will spun toward Mount Eredren.
Sarn’s eyes flew open breaking the spell. Reality bitch slapped him hard enough to send him reeling. Sarn collapsed on a carved bench. How did Will know he was there?
Green light streamed over the parapet and slammed into Sarn as his spent magic returned. For a long moment, Sarn sat there holding his throbbing head while stars exploded in his vision. Blood leaked out of his nose, and he wiped it on his sleeve grateful the dark color would hide the stain.
But the design on the longship was branded on his mind’s eye—two spiky wheels interlocked with a flame dancing over them and a dashed circle enclosing the whole thing. The broken circle could mean death or the Seekers, but what about the flame and those toothy wheels? He didn’t recognize the device.
The unknown woman—just thinking of her brought his map to the fore. It zoomed in and an orange arrow pointed to her. Sarn pushed to his feet even though the balcony’s girth blocked his view of the trail and his quarry. Are you heading for the last ship? What about that ship tripped the menhirs' alarm?
Whispers in the Dark
Cris-so. Cris-so.
Cris ignored the whispering voices as he walked deeper into the unknown. It was just the wind soughing through the miles of tunnels down here. But the sibilant hiss dividing his name sent a shiver up his spine.
Cris-so. Cris-so.
A nonhuman apparition appeared claws out in a stop gesture. With its wings folded tight against its armored back, the giant ghost resembled a chalked dragon sketch. But it flickered out before Cris could do more than stare at it dumbfounded.
There are no dragons, not anymore. They’re extinct. You’re imagining things, Cris. It’s this place creeping you out. Why the hell are there no veins of kindled lumir here?
Cris suppressed another shudder and squeezed the pickax’s handle. It was a comfort against his calloused palm and a reassuring weight against his shoulder. But the lack of lumir in this area and its profound darkness made him quicken his stride.
As that breathy voice chanted his name again, Cris bore down on the toothpick sticking out of his mouth. A hot hand landed on his arm, and Cris almost jumped out of his skin as he whirled to face his assailant.
“Whoa there. Calm yourself.”
Gore held up both hands in a stop gesture mirroring the dragonish ghost. All the light in this stretch of tunnel fell from his hand. The lumir crystal was an orange star plummeting into the rising shadows.
“Now look what you made me do. As if this place wasn’t creepy enough, you made me drop our only light.”
Gore cursed and chased after it, but the lumir stone had a will of its own. Down, the crystal rolled toward a darkness so deep, no light could penetrate it.
“Well, don't just stand there. Someone grab it!”
The crystal picked up speed as it caromed up another slope in contravention of gravity, taking its comforting nimbus with it. A dragon outlined in a gray just lighter than the darkness kicked the glowing stone the rest of the way up the steep grade. Then it too vanished.
“When the lights go out, spooks shamble about,” whispered a disembodied voice.
“Who said that?”
Cris turned, expecting to see something, but his dark-adjusted eyes found only empty shadows closing in on him. Because ghosts can't talk to the living. Death stole their voices, silencing all who crossed that mortal veil forever. Am I losing my mind?
“Who said what?” Gore demanded.
“I got it!” Ragnes shouted from somewhere behind them and indeed, an orange nimbus was approaching.
“I’ll take that.”
Gore seized their sole light source from Ragnes and his shoulders slumped in relief. He waved them to follow as he plunged down the left turning. Without exchanging a word, Ragnes and Villar trailed after him. Cris hurried to overtake his weaker friends.
Vill was soft and doughy. Rags was whipcord and bone thanks to a recent illness, but Gore was shifty and slim enough to slide through the cracks without his boyhood mates.
Not on my watch. Cris flexed the muscles of his free arm. He was built solid like an ox, so if Dirk and Gore’s latest con involved some level of danger, and they always did, it was best he met it before Rags and Vill. Neither was much use in a fight.
“Are you okay? You’re awful jumpy.”
Ahead Gore’s shadow swatted cobwebs aside and perhaps even a few spider webs. God only knew what was down here in the forgotten bowels of Mount Eredren.
Something scaly brushed against Cris’ arm and transparent claws plucked at his clothes. Cris slapped those spectral hands away, but their dragonish owners surrounded him. As they chanted, their leathery wings rustled:
“Ghosts and ghouls and sallow fools lost with tools and bloody drool. Oh, how they cool. Oh, how they cool, ‘neath the land where tyrants rule.”
“Shut up! You’re not real.” Cris shouted.
His injunction echoed through a cavern that faded to black beyond Gore’s puny light. But it had no effect on the figments of his overactive imagination. Their calloused hands caressed Cris as they passed him, still muttering that disturbing rhyme. But ghosts can’t speak to the living.
Unless you’re dead too, rasped that disquieting voice in his head again.
A hand plucked Cris’ sleeve. He slapped it away.
“Easy, it’s just me, and I’m quite real.”
“You didn’t see them?”
“Them who?” Gore made a show out of looking around then settled his dark eyes on Cris. There was pity in their depths as cold and clear as a midwinter morning. “You’re letting the shadows spook you?”
“Vill’s the one spooked. I’ve got my eye on the prize.”
Cris charged past Gore then slowed because he had no idea where they were going. Dirk had brought Gore down on that initial foray, not him and that still rankled. What did that shifty lout have that he didn’t? Muscles rippled as Cris clenched his fist around the pickax’s handle.
Something caressed his cheek. Crisso swatted it aside and tangled his fingers in sticky silk. Shaking his hand did no good. The strands clung on even when he rubbed his hand against the coarse fabric of his trousers.
“Heh, you got that right. Vill’s scared of his own shadow.” Gore twirled the lumir stone in his hand blurring the edges of
its orange nimbus. Its halo contracted a little more with each breath they took.
“True,” Cris said as he rubbed his eyes. He was imagining the light dimming and the shadows crooking beckoning claws.
“Come hither, come join us in the dark where all things are bound,” they seemed to say, but that was nonsense. Shadows couldn’t speak.
But Dryskellions can.
Cris laughed. Dryskellions aren’t real. Was he really arguing with himself? Cris rubbed his eyes again determined to make them stop playing games with the light. There’s no army of light thieves down here waiting to pounce. That was just an old tale dreamed up by a drunken bard.
“Turn right here.” Gore gestured with the orange lumir crystal in his hand.
But as he led the way to a long decline, its light turned a brownish hue. Shadows pressed in on them, contracting the lumir stone’s light to a pinpoint then it flickered once and winked out.
Cris froze. Lumir never extinguishes. It can't. The back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching them.
A bony shoulder banged into Cris, Ragnes' judging by the leather fringe. Rags was such a clotheshorse.
“What the hell was that?” Villar asked, his voice rising with fear.
“Nothing but lumir acting queer. If you give me a moment, I’ll fix that.” Gore trailed off, and the dull sound of rocks striking each other commingled with curses.
“The ground’s moving. Guys the—”
“Shut up. It’s all in your head Vill,” Ragnes said, rounding on their friend.
Click. Click. “Fecking fire kit’s good for nothing.”
“Guys the floor, it’s—”
“You’re imagining things.”
Pebbles rolled past. Cris stepped on a crack and backpedaled as it widened.
“The ground’s caving in. Run!” Cris pushed a bony shoulder—Rags' most likely—and shoved his boyhood friend ahead of him.
Oh, shit, oh, shit! The ground dropped out as Cris leaped onto a gray island in the black and skidded to a heart-pounding halt.
“C-Cris!” Rags shouted.
“I’m ok—”
Hinges squealed in protest drowning out Cris’ answering shout. He shoved his fingers into his ears to block out the sound. But it was inside his head, scratching at his sanity.
Metal slammed against stone and its reverberations shook his perch. Cris hoped his friends were okay. And if they aren’t, there’s nothing you can do to help them right now. A muscle worked in Cris’ jaw as he threw his arms over his head to protect it from the hail of pebbles pounding him. This was all Dirk’s fault. And he’d make that rat-bastard pay—if he made it out of here alive.
Cris danced aside to avoid a broken foot as larger stones smashed into his island. Every move he made rocked his precarious perch. His temporary refuge was fast shaking itself to bits. Soon it would be as gone as the ground around him.
I must get off this rock. There’s got to be solid ground around here somewhere. The whole cavern couldn’t have collapsed. Cris pushed such thoughts out of mind. There was no room for doubt, just action. And if he fell to his death? So be it. At least he died while trying to escape.
No light filtered in. Darkness so thick Cris could almost walk on it surrounded him. And he felt scales—what the hell?
“Darkness is a serpent,” hissed a sibilant voice. “Its open jaws offer death, but its kiss promises life. Just a touch, just a taste and you’ll fall under its spell.”
“Who said that?” Cris searched the dark. Its totality blinded him, but not his hands. They registered the brush of cold scales. Cris recoiled in horror.
Something bony struck Cris from behind and pushed him into the black. He screamed but the battering ram propelled him across the gap into a slab of cold iron. Hot breath stirred the hairs on the back of his neck and a smooth metal surface reflected two glowing snake eyes—one on either side of his body.
The sight gave Cris a jolt. He was pinned between a giant lizard’s head and a door that hadn’t been there before. Holy shit, holy shit—fear chased its tail inside his head as Cris scrabbled for a handhold.
Through the door, he heard his friends calling for help. And that was unacceptable. Get a grip! They need you! You’re no good to anyone like this.
The mental pep-talk shocked Cris back to rationality. Forget the door. So, it wasn’t there before. It’s there now. Deal with it.
But as Cris felt along the door, he couldn’t help staring into those eerie blue eyes. They looked amused. Maybe it wasn’t going to eat him. Maybe it had another fate in mind, but what could a giant reptile want from someone like him?
Cris glanced over his shoulder to put the question to his captor. But the reptile played the glow of its eyes over the door highlighting a gap beneath it. Was that an invitation to dismount?
Cris dug his fingers into that crack and hung there as his cold-blooded captor disappeared. Only two cold spots on the back of his tunic remained where the creature’s nostrils had been, proving it was quite real.
Cris shuddered. If that thing returned, he had nowhere to hide. Nor could he hang around forever. His arms were already tiring.
Glowing ice rolled over his hands, encasing them to the wrist. Claws clicked on stone somewhere above then a massive, reptilian head pushed through the solid steel door.
Oh, God Almighty, were there two of them? At least this one wasn’t corporeal.
The words ‘help me!’ died on Cris’ lips. A dragon blinked watermelon-sized eyes at him. Blue flames ran around its pupils outlining a black ovoid. Spikes ran down its back and they undulated in a fell breeze.
No, there weren’t two giant reptiles, just the same one toying with him. The creature’s disturbing eyes confirmed it.
“What would you give? An arm? A life? What would you give for the prize you seek?” asked a breathy voice, not at all what he’d expected. Gone were those sibilant Ss.
“What are you talking about?”
Cris swung his legs up and probed for a toehold, but the rock was smooth, and his boots slipped off. So did his fear. If this thing was bent on eating him, it would have done so by now. Reptiles don't talk to their prey.
“Rags? Vill? Gore? Anybody?”
“What would you give?” asked the dragon. Its head filled the tunnel and its tensed body flickered as if it were struggling to maintain its shape.
Cris sized up his captor. Was it a ghost gone horribly wrong?
Something rammed the door above Cris and the screech of claws on metal made him wince. The dragon canted its head to see, but it was merging into the cold numbing Cris. Ice crept down his torso, and he convulsed.
“Help me.”
“What would you give to release a thief?” the dragonish ghost asked in disgust.
“Cris!” Ragnes shouted.
“Fecking flint!” Gore cursed his fire kit again.
His friends' voices were mere echoes when they reached Cris' ears. Was the dragon the fantasy or the voices calling him?
Biting his lip, Cris kept from screaming as pain rocketed up his back then faded as a cold, scaly body brushed against his side—not another one. Cris squirmed but to no avail.
His new captor wound around him and squeezed. A forked tongue licked the blood seeping from a gash on his cheek, and its fetid breath stank of graves and moldering things. Cris breathed through his mouth so the stink wouldn’t choke him and tasted ashes.
“I know what he’ll give—one of his friends,” said the dark thing constricting him.
Oh, God, he was right. There were two of them, but they weren’t on the same side. Worse still, neither one was on his side.
“Choose now, and you can breathe again.”
“It must be his choice just as it was ours to jail Him. What would you give, Cris-so?” she asked but her voice was becoming angrier and more sibilant as it faded out. “An arm? A leg? A life? What would you give to release a thief?”
Somewhere close by, Villar screamed, but the sound choked o
ff. Was his friend all right?
“What the fu—” Ragnes’ shout cut off with a thud.
“You’re all a bunch of sissies afraid of the dark,” muttered Gore. Click, click. “Fecking flint.”
“Decision made,” said the sepulchral voice of the giant serpent loosening its coils. A loud clang followed by the sound of something large, heavy and metallic falling, made Cris shout a warning.
“Get down!”
Then he was flung through pitch darkness. Cris laughed as his feet slammed into solid ground again sending a shockwave up his spine. Had it all been some terrible waking dream?
A skeletal hand clapped over his mouth. “There are no dragons or dragon-shifters anymore. Think of coins, gold as sunshine, dancing, dancing and fine wine,” whispered a voice in Cris’ ear like the sighing of a grave. “Forget your fears. Spill no tears. Your goal is near.”
The shadow spun away releasing Cris. Its robes swirled as a spark flew from Gore’s madly striking hands.
Click. Click. Foom!
“It’s about fecking time!”
A tongue of orange flame licked away the darkness around Gore’s upraised fist. In that flickering light, coins bobbed and spun. And the floor shined reflecting those beautiful, beautiful coins.
Cris staggered forward with his hand outstretched to catch those gold coins and the darkness released him. It swept out of the tunnel, carried on a breath of cold foreboding and bitter laughter. It was just a touch, just a taste of the Adversary's grace.
Party Crashers
While Sarn waited for his headache to abate, he watched the unknown woman’s icon shrink on his head map as she strolled across the meadow. Come on, board one of those boats so I can stop watching you. Because none of those ships were on his head map. The damned thing ended at the beach rendering the river Nirthal, and everything in or on it, as a featureless white ribbon.
While Sarn stood there, Ran was unusually quiet. The lack of demands finally registered and so did his son's location.
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 Page 64